


Blind, Deaf, and Dumb

by Delphi



Series: Love Is Blind [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Romance, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-04
Updated: 2004-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/Delphi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Severus Snape has his eyes opened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blind, Deaf, and Dumb

Outside, the first of the April gales is hurling itself against the castle, driving rain in great sheets against the walls and windows. There are crackles of lightning and great rumblings of thunder, and the wind is shrieking like a banshee around the turrets, but in a little room tucked away in the west wing, the storm is no more than a distant murmur and the world is warm and dry.

Here Severus Snape sits perched on the edge of a low worktable, his usual spot, with his History of Magic textbook open on his lap and some parchment laid out beside him. He is neither reading nor writing, however. He is watching, carefully, as Mr. Filch finishes up the scrollwork on a new chair for the teachers' lounge—an intricate ivy motif that has sprouted under Severus's careful watch.

The room smells strongly of shaved mahogany and the sharp varnish that's driven out the cat, baked together by the fire burning in the grate. With the door shut, the heat has built up until it feels like summer, and Severus has shed his shoes and socks to lounge barbarously barefoot. For reasons not entirely due to the heat, his palms are damp and so is the spot on his robes where he keeps wiping them. He is thinking in circles and idly worrying at the inside of his cheek with his teeth.

There is no clock in the cluttered workroom, but Severus's feet swing in time to the faint ticking of Mr. Filch's pocket-watch. Back and forth, as he thoughtfully considers the broad expanse of the caretaker's back, his wide shoulders, his hairy arms below his rolled-up shirtsleeves. The belt, black and stiff. The tidy queue caught at the back of his neck, and how he's holding his bottom lip between his teeth as he carves the shadow onto a delicately curling leaf.

A fresh prickle of sweat slowly breaks out down along Severus's back. There's an ache in his belly, deep down, more hollow than hurt. He tentatively identifies the feeling as shame. Not really so much for what he's about to do, but for how much he wants to do it. He looks at Mr. Filch's big hands and shivers.

This earns him a look. Mr. Filch has sharp ears.

Severus glances down at his book, trying to recall just what he's meant to be studying. "Er...when was Elspeth the Egregious beheaded?"

There is a brief pause—Mr. Filch rolling his eyes up at the ceiling like the answer is spelled out on the crossbeams—and then, triumphantly: "1690, August 19th."

If he sounds a little smug, it's with good reason. Severus has yet to catch him out when it comes to history. Mr. Filch is a bizarre treasure-store of names and dates, and Severus gets to be smug in turn when old Binns has to go and look up some bit of trivia that has found its way into one of his essays. This year, History of Magic has become one of his top subjects.

He dips his quill and dutifully writes down the date. He takes his time, waiting to see if Mr. Filch will keep watching him.

He does.

Severus keeps his head down, trying to keep from twitching. His sweaty hand smears the 't' in 'August.' Now that he knows it's there, he can almost feel it—that meticulous gaze. A light tickle, like a bead of sweat dripping slowly down his neck, his chest, his belly, to pool warm and heavy in the hollows of his hipbones.

He looks up, and Mr. Filch quickly looks away.

Still the feeling lingers, making Severus' stomach sort of lurch to one side, his blood quickening and a guilty blush fighting its way to his cheeks.

It's then that he knows for certain that Avery was right.

And that, for what it's worth, he's glad.

* * *

It had begun, more or less, four days earlier.

"He fancies you," Quintus Avery said with a smile.

This was Monday night, when he and Severus were walking together to their Astronomy lesson. That was to say, they had both left the dormitory late and had fallen into step as a sort of social courtesy. They were taking a shortcut across the fifth floor, and they were alone, having just passed Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris on the stair.

Still, Severus found himself looking over his shoulder before he realised that the comment had been meant for him. He replayed it and frowned. "What...who?"

To tell the truth, he was more surprised than suspicious. He and Avery had been walking in what passed for companionable silence, with what Severus had understood to be a tacit agreement that they wouldn't have to talk to each other.

Avery waited a moment until they had walked a little farther. Then he glanced behind him down the empty corridor and said, "Filch. He fancies you."

Severus rolled his eyes, rather disappointed in Avery. "He does not," he said tiredly and waited for Avery to laugh at him anyway.

Avery didn't laugh, though. He only glanced at Severus curiously, and had his face been mocking or mean, Severus wouldn't have listened to another word he said. But the look that Avery gave him was almost pitying. It said, without the childish words: 'Does so.'

This unsettled Severus. Of course he didn't trust Avery; he wasn't particularly inclined to trust anyone, but if he were, his housemates would have been at the bottom of the list. Had this been Nott or Lestrange, or even Rosier, who was an all right sort, Severus would have known he was being teased and would have responded appropriately with his words or his wand.

Avery, though...Avery was the exception of the fifth year Slytherin boys. He never really teased anyone, but was never bullied himself. He was quiet, always watching even when you thought he wasn't, which made him extremely useful on occasion. This year alone, he had been the first to know that Professor Potts was getting sacked for being a drunk and that Marjorie Bones in Ravenclaw hadn't transferred to Beauxbatons after all but had got in the family way by a Muggle boy over the summer holidays. When Avery had gossip of this sort, Severus was inclined to believe him because misfortune just wasn't funny for Avery unless it was true. He was a sneak and a spy with little sense of discretion, which made him, after a fashion, the most honest person Severus knew.

Which was why it wasn't funny when Avery chuckled. "Really, Snape, I would have thought you knew. Didn't you see the way he looked at you just now? And he's always letting you off hoppity-skip and coming down harder on Potter and his lot than anyone else in this bloody school dares to."

Severus tried to recall just how the caretaker had looked at him when they'd passed and couldn't find anything out of the ordinary. Just a nod, perhaps a little friendlier than he'd give anyone outside of Slytherin, but nothing untoward. He'd got a more affectionate reception from Mrs. Norris, who'd twined around his ankles, purring with rusty rapture and nearly sending him sprawling.

He realised that Avery was now looking sidelong at him with polite, reptilian interest. "You're not...?"

Severus hesitated, wary, but had to ask anyhow. "What?"

The corner of Avery's mouth quirked upwards. "You're not fucking him, are you?"

Severus let out a squawk of outrage before he could stop himself, and he faltered in his steps, staring at Avery's back for several disbelieving moments. Then he was scurrying to catch up, his mouth working soundlessly before he managed to spit out: "Wha—fu—_Filch_?"

Avery only shrugged as though he'd been inquiring after the weather. "You're always coming out of his workshop at all hours of the evening. You're not after his sparkling company, are you?"

Severus pursed his lips. He found he was hugging his bag tightly to his chest. "I study in there," he said. "It's quiet."

It would have been a moot point in defending his reputation if he had admitted that the workroom also happened to be well out of the way of anywhere the Gryffindors had reason to be. Far off from the dormitories, far off from everybody.

Now the amusement bloodied Avery's voice. "Tsk, tsk. You really shouldn't be teasing the poor man, Snape. I bet you could get him to buy you something good if you played your cards right. You should find out if he's got any money."

Severus gritted his teeth, digging his nails into the soft leather of his satchel. Only the knowledge that life in the dormitory could be made even more miserable for him if he were to hex Avery kept him from going for his wand.

"He doesn't fancy me," he muttered instead. Then he added, "And I only bother with him because he has a pass for the Restricted Section."

It wasn't strictly a lie, and it was apparently acceptable. He thought he saw a Slytherin sort of understanding cross Avery's face.

Avery shrugged. "Ah," he said without trace of mockery. And there the subject was presumably dropped.

Except that it wasn't. As silence resumed, Severus found himself blindly placing one foot in front of the other, turning Avery's words over and over, examining them from every angle. He glanced over at Avery several times, waiting to see the laughter bubbling up through the cracks, but Avery remained politely impassive.

He swallowed over the sudden lump in his throat. Did Mr. Filch...Did Mr. Filch really fancy him, then?

Of course not. Why would he? It was patently ridiculous.

He paused. But what reason would Avery have to make it up when there were a hundred other true things he could have needled him about?

He thought, ineloquently: 'Huh.'

Severus mulled this over. He realised, in a distant sort of way, that a discovery like this should probably disturb him more than it did. But the more he thought about it, irresistibly prodding the notion like a loose tooth, the more he found it almost...well, flattering. After all, so far as he knew, nobody had ever fancied him before, and he was realistic enough to realise there was little chance that anyone ever would, at least so long as he was stuck in this wretched place.

Sex, something that had always seemed to him to be a second-hand commodity—something to be imagined or read about while he guiltily pulled himself off twice a day—suddenly swung neatly into a first-person perspective.

He wasn't a total idiot. He had weighed his options before, as every one of his year mates had come back from the summer suddenly dating, petting, and some of them shagging. There were certain individuals who were known to be less than choosy about whom they'd favour: Mirabelle Parkinson who, it was rumoured, would go out behind the greenhouses with anyone who asked. Regulus Black in fourth year who apparently sucked off any boy who looked at him sideways in the showers. But every time that Severus had been tempted, he would remember that he wasn't just anybody. And that never asking was a lot safer than being turned down by even the easiest of the easy. Better than being laughed at.

But...Mr. Filch didn't laugh at him, he thought distantly as he was climbing the spiral staircase that led up into the Astronomy Tower. He watched disinterestedly as Avery left his side to join a group of friends, and then he made his own way over to an empty seat in front of the nearsighted telescope that no one else ever wanted to use.

Mr. Filch never laughed at him, he thought again, more clearly this time. Mr. Filch never sniggered behind his hand, never tittered in that let's-be-friends way the headmaster did. Sometimes he might chuckle at something Severus said—a rough sort of crow's caw that didn't sound much like a proper laugh—but that was only when Severus was meaning to be funny. If anything, Severus was the one who could laugh at _him_. Mr. Filch was dusty and old, perhaps a bit mad, and no matter how clever he seemed, Severus had come to suspect he might be a Squib, or nearly so.

He supposed that he could be angry at all the hours he'd spent in Mr. Filch's company, snatching a little peace and quiet away from the rest of the world, and all that time Mr. Filch had probably been thinking things he shouldn't have. This didn't taste like betrayal, however. Perhaps because thinking was obviously all it was. Mr. Filch had never said a word when Severus had stopped dropping by under the pretext of asking some question or other about the castle and had just started walking in and tossing his books on the worktable. Never asked when Severus had started coming in every night, even though he had to have known.

Severus thought carefully but could not recall a time when Mr. Filch had ever really tried to touch him, besides the occasional pat on the shoulder, and a sort of hug once, back in third year when he'd been charged with giving Severus a beating for having hexed Sirius Black into the infirmary.

All right, he thought. Say Mr. Filch did think things about him—although it made him feel funny to imagine exactly what those things might be—thought and deed were still two very different things. Severus thought things all the time that he never put into practice. He thought quite often about how it would feel to perform an Unforgivable on James Potter. He thought about breaking every one of Sirius Black's teeth and raising boils on his face so that he'd be just as ugly on the outside as in. Bludgeoning pathetic little Pettigrew to death with a Beater's bat to finally stop his stupid sniggers. Making Remus Lupin choke on his infuriating silence.

What did it matter what went on inside of Mr. Filch's head? The man had never touched him. That was it, the long and the short of it.

So why then did a little voice in the back of Severus's mind clear its throat and ask, hesitantly: 'Well...what if he did?'

It was enough to throw Severus into a state of nervous distraction for the rest of the lesson. The professor's instructions drifted in between his ears like wisps of fog; he scribbled jumbled notes devoid of any sense and couldn't find Venus for the entire hour. When class was finally over, he stalled in gathering his things so that he wouldn't have to walk with anyone else. He made his way numbly back to the dormitory. He took the same staircase down to the fourth floor, but of course Mr. Filch wasn't there anymore.

Some time later, as he lay in bed listening to the familiar drone of his sleeping dorm-mates, Severus came to a conclusion:

That, odd though it was, he rather _liked_ Mr. Filch.

This was a surprising revelation to say the least. He'd had to fumble his way up to it. First, he'd acknowledged that he liked Mr. Filch more than he liked his parents, though that wasn't such a feat. Then he'd thought that he liked Mr. Filch more than he liked any of his teachers, more than he liked the headmaster. He liked Mr. Filch more than his schoolmates, who were all either mean or stupid, or both. He even liked Mr. Filch more than he did the majority of his so-called friends.

This left Mr. Filch, frighteningly enough, as one of the people that Severus liked best in the whole world.

And after some consideration, it was almost understandable. Partly, it had to be because they were so much alike. Mr. Filch didn't seem to like too many people either, except for his cat and a lot of dead writers, so the fact that he liked Severus (or at least didn't talk about keelhauling him) meant a lot more than the headmaster's little pats on the head. It was also perhaps because Mr. Filch always seemed duly impressed with him. He always listened closely when Severus talked about his lessons, and while there was a rule of no magic in the workroom, he always asked to hear the theory behind every new spell that Severus learned.

But mostly, Severus thought, he liked Mr. Filch because Mr. Filch would never laugh at him.

He made Severus tea the way he liked it, with lemon, and lent him books from his private shelves. Fiction, something the library didn't stock. He never talked about why Severus had nowhere else to be after classes. He was quiet when he had nothing to say, and he didn't breathe too loudly, and he seemed convinced that Severus was going to make something of himself.

The last thing that Severus thought before falling asleep that night was that Mr. Filch smelled rather nice, like the sunny parts of the castle.

* * *

Severus waits until Mr. Filch has gone back to work before reaching for his collar. He fiddles with it a moment, unbuttoning and rebuttoning it before finally leaving it open. Keeping his eyes fixed on his book, he opens the second button and waits to see if Mr. Filch will look over. He does, but only for a moment.

So he reaches up to undo the third button, and when he does, his fingers brush against a nipple, which instantly hardens. Still watching Mr. Filch from under his eyelashes, he pinches it, and the contact feels like static, sending a jolt straight to his prick. The fierceness of the pleasure takes him aback—it never feels this _sharp_ when he's alone—and, intrigued, he keeps on surreptitiously rubbing himself through his robes, letting the little shocks build to a pleasant  
crackle.

It's excitingly surreal. He is touching himself, getting hard, in the sole company of another person. Mr. Filch is sanding a chair leg, oblivious, but the motion of his hand against the wood is strangely compelling, and only the constant thrum of anxiety that has been with Severus from the start keeps him from coming in his pants right then and there.

He fidgets, pressing his legs together. A faint voice in the back of his head reminds him that this is a spectacularly stupid idea, a dangerous idea, a _Gryffindor_ idea. But he's not a Gryffindor, and he knows that if he turns back now, he will likely never work up the nerve to try again. He'll stay a virgin, stupid, laughable, maybe for the rest of his life. As much as he's told himself that he has calculated all the risks and has all his foxholes dug, he isn't so delusional as to pretend that it isn't desperation fuelling his folly. The truth is that he just wants it all so _badly_.

He wants to find out...wants to finally know what everyone else in the world seems to have figured out without even trying. What it's like to want somebody and to be wanted back. What it's like to have someone want to touch him. What it's like to want to let them.

He quietly lays his book aside.

There is a pause in the steady scrape of the sanding block against the wood. In his periphery, he can see Mr. Filch turning just a little to look at him now. His heart hammering in his throat, he keeps his head down and forces himself to keep on stroking his chest. The pleasure, mixed with terror, is sickly sweet. He can hear Mr. Filch give a sniff as he looks away.

And a moment later, he's hearing Mr. Filch swallow hard as he looks back.

His hands feel numb, but it's now or never. He reaches down and tentatively adjusts himself in his pants, trying not to screw up his face at the painful sensitivity of it. Then, he very deliberately lets his gaze drop to the same place on Mr. Filch, knowing he's being watched in return. In the space of a second, his prick jumps from half-mast to full salute, and he gives himself a squeeze, thinking, 'please, please, oh please.'

Mr. Filch is on him in a shot.

* * *

He didn't want to be stupid about it.

He needed to make certain, and so on Tuesday night, he sneaked into the prefects' bathroom and drew himself a bath. He hung a towel over the mermaid and turned on the bubbles, which were decadent and ridiculous but necessary. He didn't care to look at himself naked, not even in the bath, and he'd learned from experience that nothing could kill his arousal quicker than the sight of his own concave chest heaving beneath the swaying water and the horror of his ugly prick getting fatter and darker, twitching and drooling like something rabid.

Severus slid into the tub, his skin going tight with pleasure as it was immersed in the warm water. He leaned back in the seat, resting his head on the edge of the tub and letting his hands drift lazily down his body. He bypassed the regular pursuits, gently teasing his sides instead, his hipbones, the inside of his thighs.

'Mr. Filch,' he thought, and his stomach promptly fluttered. The bathwater was hot enough to make him nicely dizzy, to make his heart beat faster. He conjured a spectre of the caretaker in his mind: his face, his clothes, his hands, his voice.

He wasn't ugly, exactly. Or perhaps he was, but that didn't necessarily make him _unattractive_. He was, well, he was just Mr. Filch, and he looked sort of all right when he was all clean in the workroom, out of his manky old coat, with his hair tied back and his face a little more peaceful. Mr. Filch with his strong hands and funny way of talking and even funnier way of being fond of Severus.

He stroked his belly, thinking about how Mr. Filch's hands looked hard all over, worn rough and burnt smooth in places, but they were always sure and careful behind the hard, so long as they didn't have reason to catch you by the ear.

Severus spread his legs, letting his fingers tickle here and there but not allowing himself to linger. He moaned softly, imagining that it was Mr. Filch gently but inarguably prying his thighs apart. Mr. Filch's fingers instead of his own. He imagined that the water was a mouth, just as warm and smooth.

A different sort of sound escaped his throat then, stark and dry in the rising steam. His hips bucked up of their own accord, sloshing the water, and then his hands were suddenly avaricious.

He thought about being held down. Held. Held down.

He thought about hands all over him. Fingers inside of him.

He thought about being pushed face down over a table and Mr. Filch taking him roughly over the sawdust and the grease, not caring if he fought, not caring if he screamed.

And he thought: '_Yes_.'

He had to wait until Friday to come back, sneaking up while everyone else was at dinner. He bathed, washing his hair and scrubbing his face until his skin was raw. He had found a spell, ostensibly for when one was ill, and he cleaned himself down there too, blushing and queasy and strangely excited. He put on fresh socks and underpants, and he brushed his teeth until his gums bled with a minty aftertaste.

He mocked himself even as he industriously cleaned under his fingernails. It wasn't as though Mr. Filch didn't see him every day, all oily face and unkempt hair. He wasn't foolish enough to believe there was any chance of actually improving his looks. But, he thought, he didn't have to make them any worse either. So he combed his hair carefully and blotted the oil off his face with a spare piece of parchment before plucking up the courage to stand in front of the mirror.

Severus stood there for a long while, picking bits of lint off his robe and peeping up at himself through the curtain of his hair. He bit his lips, liking the way they went red. He wondered, suddenly, if Mr. Filch had noticed that he'd been gone for three nights. If he'd missed him. If he would be happy to see him tonight.

'Maybe nothing will happen,' he thought, uncertain as to whether the prospect was a comfort or a curse.

"But maybe it will."

He hadn't meant to speak out loud. His voice echoed strangely off the marble, sounding deeper than it was.

If anything went wrong, he consoled himself, then he could still pretend it had all just been a misunderstanding. Or a prank. Mr. Filch shouldn't dare tell anyone, not if Severus was laughing first. Even if he did tell, there might not be trouble, at least not for Severus. The headmaster, he thought coldly, was very tolerant of pranks.

And if everything went right, then not even Mr. Filch would ever have to know that he'd planned it. That he'd ever really wanted it at all. If Mr. Filch already fancied him, already wanted him, then Severus wouldn't even have to say yes. He would only have to not say no.

With that thought, Severus snatched up his bag and turned on his heel, making for Mr. Filch's workroom before he could change his mind.

* * *

There isn't any time to brace himself. Mr. Filch is suddenly right over him, holding his arms in an iron grip. He does not look happy; Severus has never seen his eyes like this, wild and angry storm clouds looming in the pale grey.

Slowly, very slowly, Mr. Filch leans in, so close that their noses are nearly touching.

"Right, lad," he says softly, too soft to be safe. His breath is hot against Severus's cheek, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. "Just what are you playing at?"

Severus makes two swift and simultaneous realisations: first, that he may have made a grave miscalculation, and second, that Mr. Filch is standing right up between his knees, and to his exhilarated horror, this is making him even harder.

He wets his lips, frowning. "I'm not playing at anything, sir."

"Mph," Mr. Filch snorts, his mouth twisting into something cruel. "You have your little friends out there, eh? Is that it? All waiting to have a good laugh?"

Severus shakes his head incredulously. "I'm not some kind of Gryffindor, you know," he says hotly, then blushes, then finds himself looking helplessly down to where his prick is making a sizeable ill-timed lump in his lap.

Mr. Filch glances down too, and his hands suddenly clench tighter, cutting the blood right off. His mouth opens slightly, but whatever he's meaning to say is lost as the last of Severus's good sense slips away with relief. Planting his hands flat against the table, Severus surges forward and mashes his lips against Mr. Filch's. The resulting kiss is clumsy and stubbly and dry, but it somehow makes Severus shiver all the way down his body. When gravity lands him firmly back down on the table, his pulse is racing wildly and Mr. Filch is staring at him in mute incomprehension.

"I just thought..." Severus mumbles, his lips numb.

His breath halts in his chest as Mr. Filch draws back, then moves in minutely, then stops. This time he's close enough for Severus to just lean in to kiss, and this time it feels even better because it's all lined up so that his bottom lip slips into Mr. Filch's mouth, and it's hot and moist and makes him tingle in strategic places. He feels a tickle—the brush of a tongue against the crease of his mouth—and then he's making a little cry of protest when Mr. Filch starts to draw back.

He opens his eyes, wondering when he ever closed them, but after an agonising moment, that mouth is coming down on him even harder. His lips are pushed back against his teeth, and those hands give his arms one last squeeze before almost hesitantly sliding down to his waist.

It's...there's a tongue in his mouth, he thinks—two tongues in his mouth. And it strikes him with sudden relief that kissing is _easy_, much easier than his scant experience has led him to believe. It isn't awkward at all, having his tongue softly stroked, and that spot on the inside of his cheek he's always chewing soothed, and his bottom lip so tenderly sucked that it's making him twitch. From the rough sounds lurching about in Mr. Filch's throat, Severus might even be all right at this.

He never even noticed his robes being further unbuttoned, but they are, and now they're being tugged insistently off his shoulders, dragging over his skin in a way that shouldn't feel so good.

"Please," Severus hears himself whisper when his mouth has been abandoned. His eyes are squeezed shut again. "Please touch me."

Blessed be, Mr. Filch does, hands all over Severus's bare chest, thumbs brushing over his nipples, knuckles stroking that miserly patch of hair on his breastbone. Severus scrambles desperately to the very edge of the table so that his prick is pushed right up against Mr. Filch's warm stomach. He moans, embarrassed to hear his voice break in the middle of it, but he's distracted soon enough by the fact that Mr. Filch is...tasting him. Devouring him. Sucking hard on Severus's neck—his collarbone, his shoulder—with a quick and ravenous mouth.

He lets out an 'eep' of surprise when his left arm is pushed back and Mr. Filch's tongue darts under it. Their breathing suddenly fills the whole room, Severus panting out and Mr. Filch, he realises with a mix of confusion and arousal, huffing in deep as he's licking, and surely it's not supposed to feel that good, having somebody's tongue in your armpit?

"Oh," Mr. Filch is saying, muffled against his skin, "Oh, God."

And all Severus can say in reply is, "Please...please..."

Then Mr. Filch's mouth closes around his nipple, giving it a flick of his tongue, and when he bites down very softly—just the impression of teeth—Severus feels his entire body jerk, and he comes in his pants without even being touched.

His orgasm is short and nearly painful, and he's about ready to die of embarrassment before he realises that Mr. Filch hasn't noticed, and that he's already getting hard again when a warm hand jams between their bodies and starts stroking him through his clothes. Mr. Filch mutters something unintelligible into his neck, but Severus can't catch his breath enough to beg pardon.

It doesn't matter, though. Not when those last few buttons are surrendering, one by one, and then his robes and pants are yanked down from under him with one fierce pull. Severus blushes when he gets a look at himself, half-hard and coated with his own semen, uncomfortably cold and sticky in the air.

He glances up to find Mr. Filch licking his lips. "Sneaky little kitten," he murmurs, running a wicked finger through the wet. "Little tom in heat."

Then Mr. Filch is getting stiffly to his knees, and Severus nearly falls off the table when his legs are brusquely hiked over the man's shoulders. He inches back, steadying himself with his hands, thighs trembling as he realises what's about to happen. He whimpers the moment he feels the hot breath surround him, and then he cries out once the wetness comes. His elbows nearly give out on him as he's sucked enthusiastically, professionally, religiously. He can't help mewling. The wet, smacking noises are obscene, delicious, too much, too much.

He feels himself begin to shoot again all too soon, but the sucking doesn't let up. Mr. Filch keeps on working him, making small satisfied noises as though he's enjoying his favourite treat, drawing out every drop and leaving Severus shaking.

"Shh," Mr. Filch whispers once his mouth is off him. He presses little kisses all along the inside of Severus's thighs.

Severus suddenly feels strangely weak, uncommonly hungry. He feels like there's something he should be apologising for, only he doesn't know what it is.

"I...I'll touch you too," he stammers idiotically and then winces.

He manages to keep his hand steady as he reaches out for Mr. Filch's face. He runs curious fingers over a cleft chin, strong jaw, fleshy cheeks. Underneath the stubble, the man's skin is very soft.

There's a curious expression on Mr. Filch's face, but Severus has never been too good at figuring out what faces mean. He looks almost sad, or scared, but maybe that's just what people look like during sex. For all Severus knows, he might be wearing a strange face too.

Mr. Filch gets up, leaning heavily on the table. He's breathing quickly, his mouth red and wet. And he's hard, making his trousers tent straight out. Severus gently brushes his hand over the mound, startling when Mr. Filch makes a choking sound. Then he gathers up all his nerve and reaches for the belt, that thick old belt that he himself was beaten with. That day comes rushing back to him as he's pulling the belt out through the loops and Mr. Filch's hands are moving restlessly. He thinks about that rough half-hug that Mr. Filch gave him after the beating was done, and how he said that Severus had taken his licks like a man and all was forgiven. Clean slate, he'd said, and that was why Severus had gone back. Kept going back.

He wriggles his hand down inside the open trousers and finds no underpants in his way. Something very hot and firm presses into his palm. He looks down and swallows hard. It feels...different, strange. Like his own, but not. It's bigger, a lot bigger, thick and dark, and wet at the tip, and suddenly Mr. Filch is squeezing Severus's hand around it hard and making a low sound.

"Do you want to—" Severus winces when his voice cracks again. "I mean, I'd let you...I want you to f-fuck me."

Just saying it out loud makes him tighten back there. He's used his fingers before, and a candle once, but never anything as big as what's sticking luridly out of Mr. Filch's trousers. It makes him squirm to look at it, so he looks Mr. Filch in the eyes instead, and Mr. Filch stares back at him for a long moment, his mouth moving like he's trying to speak but nothing's coming out.

Finally, he takes a step back and croaks, "Over the table."

Severus slides down onto jelly legs, kicking his robes and pants off from around his ankles. He feels silly turning around and bracing himself with his forearms flat on the table. Mr. Filch must think he looks ridiculous with his arse sticking out. He licks his lips nervously. He knows it's going to hurt, but it can't be too bad if people do this all the time, can it? It can't hurt more than a beating, if one's for pleasure and the other is meant for punishment.

Right?

He's suddenly aware that his breathing has become too fast for him to catch up with. He sounds as though he's running, and the tips of his fingers are starting to tingle. 'Stop it,' he tells himself, then realises in a panic that he can't. His breathing is spiralling out of control, and stars are bursting in front of his eyes.

"Boy!" he hears Mr. Filch say sharply, but it's the stinging slap on his arse that brings him back to himself.

Severus gasps a great lungful of air, moaning in relief as he exhales. A second slap makes sure it wasn't a fluke. And the third drives his hips forward before he even realises that it feels good. Not pain, really, not like the belt at all. It's sharp but warm, each blow having spanned the whole of each cheek, leaving a feeling of prickling nerves. But Mr. Filch isn't supposed to use his bare hand with the students, he recalls. There are rules, like how he's not allowed to beat the girls, only the boys. The belt for the backside and the shaving strap for the hand. Isn't allowed to spank.

'Yes, and Mr. Filch isn't supposed to suck off students either.'

He moans again, a different pitch. There is a silent pause behind him.

Then: "Like that?"

Not trusting his voice, he nods, then yelps anyway when another slap takes him by surprise. Then Mr. Filch is grasping his backside, squeezing it to a rhythm, his fingers slipping shallowly in between. Severus's prick is pointing straight out in front of him, the underside hovering just centimetres above the tabletop. Another slap sends it bobbing, then it's up even higher as those warm, callused hands are caressing him. Again and again, slap by squeeze, until his prick is standing up right along his belly and he feels like the flush from his backside has spread all over his body.

"Do it," he says breathlessly, when a dry finger is once again running lightly between his cheeks. "I'm ready."

For a moment Mr. Filch says nothing, just keeps running his finger back and forth. Then, "God help me," he mutters, and he squeezes Severus's hip so tightly it hurts.

"Stay there," he orders, his voice wound tight.

Severus hears drawers opening and slamming shut, their contents falling over and rolling. Then a pause, a murmur, and the soft, rude sound of something being squeezed out of a tube.

"Just a dab, just a dollop," Mr. Filch is muttering. "Just a bit."

Slick fingers slide between his thighs, stroke his bollocks, anoint his prick. He still can't help stiffening a little when they slide over his opening. There's a sigh and then a lengthy pause behind him. Mr. Filch mutters something that sounds like, "Hang me." Then his thighs are being stroked again.

"Legs together."

Severus obeys, too dizzy to know if he should be confused but suspecting the answer is yes when he feels that first nudge come lower than expected. A wretched sounding moan gets muffled against Severus's shoulder as Mr. Filch pushes his prick smoothly between the tops of his thighs. Severus's balls get a pleasant nudge, and then an even nicer oiled hand brings his own prick into it.

His hips find their rhythm with ease, and he's tense for a few thrusts, still uncertain as to whether he'll be pierced or not, but Mr. Filch is making some very happy noises at the situation as it is. Severus closes his eyes, letting some of his weight sag against the strong arms holding him. The heat pressed all along his back makes him quiver, and he hears himself whisper, "Tighter," and smiles when those arms nearly crush him.

"Sweet lad," Mr. Filch is muttering. "Sweet lad, oh Christ, oh Christ..."

The brisk slap of skin against skin is soon drowned out by breathing, harder and faster as Mr. Filch starts clutching at him desperately, and just when that ragged sound is all that Severus can hear, Mr. Filch suddenly falls silent and still, then spends himself with a long, low moan. He stands frozen for a full minute, his prick still jerking and twitching between Severus's thighs. Then his hand fumbles downwards and Severus is roughly stroked off to another orgasm while warm semen trickles down his legs.

Drained, he barely feels it when Mr. Filch lets go. He falls slowly forward, euphoria dwindling, eyelids feeling heavy as stone. Vaguely he realises what a mess he is, covered in come and sweat, clothing at his feet. He came on the table; there's some on his parchment. He's never really looked at the stuff before—it looks like paste, pearly and runny. He hears vague sounds behind him, things moving, Mr. Filch mumbling to himself, but can't find the energy to look over his shoulder.

He wakes up with a gasp a moment later when a warm, wet cloth runs over his thighs and between his legs. His prick twitches irritably at the contact, sensitive and sore, but the cooler air in its wake is a bit of all right. A nudge at each ankle has him stepping back into his pants before they're tugged up. A gentle, considerate hand gets his prick settled in before pulling up his robes and buttoning him back up. The table gets a swipe.

Then the footsteps are moving away from him. He hears the scrape of a chair. Then nothing.

It takes a minute for him to trust his legs enough to turn around. When he does, he finds Mr. Filch sitting in the far corner, elbows on his knees and one hand covering his mouth. He's looking down at the floor, not blinking.

"How old are you, boy?"

Severus fidgets, suddenly uneasy, cold.

"Severus." Firmer. "How old are you?"

That surprises him into nervously spitting out, "Nearly sixteen?" He thinks it might be the first time that Mr. Filch has ever used his given name.

Mr. Filch stares at him for a moment and then sits back heavily. "Fifteen. Christ. Fifteen."

Severus frowns. "I'm...I'm not going to tell anyone, you know."

He winces at the plaintive tone in his voice. He's supposed to be grown up now. He's supposed to be like everyone else. But instead of feeling like a man, Severus feels more like a little boy than he ever has in his life. He stands awkwardly still for a moment and then finds himself putting one hesitant foot in front of the other until he's sinking down to sit at Mr. Filch's feet. He pulls his legs up to his chest, closing his eyes and hating the silence. He suddenly feels very disgusted with himself. He did it wrong. He couldn't even manage to do this right, and now he's the one being turned away.

He gives a start when he's touched, but the hand on his head is gentle. Mr. Filch's fingers comb through his hair. It feels nice. No one has ever touched his hair before, at least as long as he can remember.

He rallies his strength; he's not going to be pathetic about this. "If you'd prefer..." he says, fighting to keep his voice steady. "If you'd prefer I stop coming back..."

Silence. Mr. Filch doesn't answer for a long while, just keeps on petting him as though he's Mrs. Norris, with long, soothing strokes. Severus listens to him breathing. Mr. Filch always breathes so quietly, discreetly. That was on his list, Severus recalls.

After too many muffled ticks of the pocket-watch, though, the quiet stretches too thin and Severus makes to rise even as his stomach is sinking down to his feet—already thinking of what he's going to tell the headmaster if Filch rats him out. He can say that he was hexed. He can say that someone slipped a love potion into his drink, or that it was all a dare that went too far. He really doesn't want to have to tell the headmaster that Mr. Filch made him, but if it comes down to it, he supposes that he would.

But those fingers suddenly clench painfully in his hair, and Severus is sitting back down before he means to.

"Hush, lad," Mr. Filch says quietly, without looking at him. "I'm not turning you out. You...you come back here whenever you need to."

"I liked it," Severus blurts out, then blushes. He forces himself to forge on, though, thinking that if he can just make Mr. Filch understand, then maybe this can happen again without either of them worrying about the other. Some sort of arrangement, maybe.

He tries again. "I like you all right. I mean...I don't. Like many people." He adds softly: "But I like you all right."

Mr. Filch shifts in his chair, but his hand never stills. "I think," he says, "that might be the trouble right there." He sighs heavily. "But I like you all right, too, lad."

They sit like that for a long while, and when Severus finally gathers his things to leave, he hesitates. He comes back to Mr. Filch's side and presses a quick kiss into the corner of his mouth. He doesn't see it, but he thinks he feels Mr. Filch smile.

* * *

It's still some time before lights out when Severus returns to the dungeons. Everyone is in the common room, gathered around the wireless for the WWN's weekend countdown. The music is tinny, occasionally crackling from the weather. Severus thinks he hears his name as he passes, but he doesn't stop until he's in the empty dormitory.

He draws the curtains around his bed, then strips, kneeling naked on the mattress and taking a hard look at his body. It doesn't look any different, still as repulsive as ever, but it feels...it _feels_. Like it's somehow been woken up and now his skin is living and breathing, some kind of fearsome creature that made a grown man get down on his knees for it.

His nipples are still a little redder than usual, tender and swollen. It's almost painful to brush them with his fingers, but good too, like picking at a wound. It makes his stomach tremble, but nothing like the hot, painful melting that came before. A faint smudge of bruises are darkening on his hips and—he twists around—on his backside too. Fingerprints, as painless as if they'd been made with ink; he's always bruised easily. He crosses his arms and overlays his fingers on the marks, closing his eyes and remembering what it was like when Mr. Filch was holding him by the hips, so tight, holding him to his pleasure.

He slips into bed, still naked, and shivers at the chill of the sheets. Outside, the wind is howling, but he can scarcely hear it.

Instead, as he's falling asleep, he hears a rough voice and words with prickly shells and tender underbellies: _"You come back here whenever you need to."_

He'll remember that long after the bruises have faded.


End file.
